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Thursday, 30 July 2009

For Lily

who died 4 hours old, 24 hours ago. 


and from the Little Prince

In one of the stars I shall be living 
In one of them I shall be laughing 
And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing 
When you look at the sky at night. 


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a siren wails in the night


my sisters keeper has a surprisingly good soundtrack. 
My personal favourite is this, by Edwina Hayes, it's called feels like home. 


And now, the picture...  It's of an Irish Showjumper called Jessica Kurten. She's  true pleasure and privilege for any fan of any equestrian discipline to watch. She also absolutely loves all her horses, and I felt it sort of suited the song. 

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Wednesday, 29 July 2009

to pretend we never die


I work all day, and get half drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark I stare.
In time the curtain edges will grow light 
Till then i see what's always there:
unresting death, a whole day nearer now. 
Making all thought impossible but how
and where I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread 
of dying and being dead 
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse 
- the good not done, love not given, time
torn off unused - nor wretchedly because 
an only life can take so long to climb 
clear of its wrong beginnings; and may never;
But at the total emptiness of forever, 
the sure extinction we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here
Not to be anywhere. 
And soon; nothing more terrible; nothing more true

This is a special way of being afraid 
no trick dispels; religion used to try
That vast, moth eaten musical brocade
created to pretend we never die 
and specious stuff that says no rational being 
can fear what it will not feel, not seeing 
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound 
no touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with
nothing to love or link with 
The anesthetic from which none come round 

And so it stays, just on the edge of vision 
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision 
Most things may never happen, this one will 
And realiseation of it rages out 
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good: 
In means not scaring others. Being brave 
lets noone off the grave
Death is no different whined at than withstood

Slowly light strengthens and the room takes shape 
It stands as plain as a wardrobe, what we know, 
Have always known, yet can't escape 
yet can't accept. One side will have to go
Meanwhile telephones crouch, waiting to ring
In locked up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse 
The sky is as white as clay with so sun
there is work to be done. 
Postmen, like doctors, go from house to house.
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Sunday, 26 July 2009

Well you say that all the time


We drove the car to the top of the parking ramp 
on the 4th of July
we sat out on the hood with a couple of warm beers and watched the fire works explode in the sky
and there was an exodus of birds from the trees
but they didn't know, we were only pretending. 
and the people all looked up and were pleased
while the birds flew around like the whole world was ending. 
and I don't think that war is noble 
and I don't like to think that love is like war
and I got a big hot cherry bomb and I want to slip it through the mail slot
of your front door

don't leave me here
i've got your back 
now you better have mine 
cause you say the coast is clear 
well you say that all the time. 

so many sheep i quit counting
sleepless and embarrassed about the way that I feel
trying to make molehills out of mountains 
building base camp at the bottom of a really big deal
and did I tell you how I stopped eating 
when you stopped calling me
and I was cramped up shitting river for weeks
trying to pretend i was finally free. 

don't leave me here
now that your back
 you better stay right here
cause you say the coast is clear 
well you say that all the time. 

we drove the car to the top of the parking lot 
on the 4th of July 
and I planted my dusty boots on the bumper and sat out on the hood 
and looked up at the sky. 

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Friday, 24 July 2009

I do not think that they will sing to me.


    S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
 
 
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats        5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …        10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
 
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,        15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,        20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
 
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;        25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;        30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
 
In the room the women come and go        35
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—        40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare        45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
 
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,        50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
 
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—        55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?        60
  And how should I presume?
 
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress        65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets        70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
 
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!        75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?        80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,        85
And in short, I was afraid.
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,        90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—        95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all.”
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,        100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:        105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
      .      .      .      .      .		        110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,        115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
 
I grow old … I grow old …        120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
 
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
 
I do not think that they will sing to me.        125
 
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
 
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown        130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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bloody hurts to look around


the bloody cops are bloody keen
to bloody keep it bloody clean
the bloody chief's a bloody swine
who bloody draws a bloody line
at bloody fun and bloody games
the bloody kids he bloody blames
are nowehere to be bloody found
anywhere in chicken town

the bloody scene is bloody sad
the bloody news is bloody bad
the bloody weed is bloody turf
the bloody speed is bloody surf
the bloody folks are bloody daft
don't make me bloody laugh
it bloody hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town
the bloody train is bloody late
you bloody wait you bloody wait
you're bloody lost and bloody found
stuck in fucking chicken town

the bloody view is bloody vile
for bloody miles and bloody miles
the bloody babies bloody cry
the bloody flowers bloody die
the bloody food is bloody muck
the bloody drains are bloody fucked
the colour scheme is bloody brown
everywhere in chicken town

the bloody pubs are bloody dull
the bloody clubs are bloody full
of bloody girls and bloody guys
with bloody murder in their eyes
a bloody bloke is bloody stabbed
waiting for a bloody cab
you bloody stay at bloody home
the bloody neighbors bloody moan
keep the bloody racket down
this is bloody chicken town

the bloody pies are bloody old
the bloody chips are bloody cold
the bloody beer is bloody flat
the bloody flats have bloody rats
the bloody clocks are bloody wrong
the bloody days are bloody long
it bloody gets you bloody down
evidently chicken town
the bloody train is bloody late
you bloody wait you bloody wait
you're bloody lost and bloody found
stuck in fucking chicken town 


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Friday, 17 July 2009

Silence


I stumbled across this photo, and wow. 
It's called New York City At Night and I don't have a clue in hell who took it, but my God it is beautiful. 

Forgive me, as it is totally the wrong time of year for this, but there was one thing it reminded me of, or at least, seemed to fit so so so perfectly, because the picture looks so calm and still despite being above one of the busiest places in the world


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Monday, 6 July 2009

RV 589

I can't actually believe I haven't done a blog on Vivaldi's Gloria. 
Thus, I shall remedy this now. 

Let's start from the beginning (a very good place to start) with the bit that everyone knows, and my god I love the orchestral parts tooooo much in this. 

Don't worry I won't put it all up, but here is a nice little soprano duet. 

The down right fantastic Domine Deus

A good jolly chorus part tooooo. 

And have another one, because I am such a nice person .

I don't really think vivaldi needs much introduction, but I hope you enjoy this. 
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No One's Laughing At God



American Soldier Killed by German Snipers, Leipzig, Germany (April 18, 1945) by Robert Capa

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God
When they’re starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God when the doctor calls
After some routine tests
No one’s laughing at God
when it’s gotten real late
And their kid’s not back from that party yet

No one laughs at God when their airplane
Starts to uncontrollably shake
No one’s laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand
with someone else and they hope that they’re mistaken
No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door
And they say “We’ve got some bad news, sir,”
No one’s laughing at God
When there’s a famine, fire or flood

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
When the crazies say he hates usand they get so red in the head
You think that they’re about to chokeGod can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious
Ha ha, ha ha

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God
when they’ve lost all they got
And they don’t know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize
that the last sight they’ll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one’s laughing at God
When they’re saying their goodbyes

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
When the crazies say he hates us and they get so red in the head
you think that they’re about to choke
God can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God in a hospital
No one’s laughing at God in a war

No one’s laughing at God
When they’re starving or freezing or so very poor

No one’s laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We’re all “laughing with God”
I know i should have cut this down, but it has to all be read
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Sunday, 5 July 2009

I Am Killing You


A homage to a brilliant, brilliant film I discovered the other day, this picture is not from it, it is some Irish guy in Boston from the National Geographic website, but that is related to 'The Departed', which is truly, truly fantastic.
Here is a gem from the soundtrack;
'Well make more fuckin' money. This is America. You don't make money, then you're a fuckin' douchebag.'
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Wednesday, 1 July 2009

And I would not

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIZ0jCpgqMM

Mendelssohn's St Paul, sop aria, Jerusalem. 

That is German, the words in English are

Jerusalem, Jerusalem 
Thou that killest the prophets and stonest them which are sent unto thee
How often would I have gathered my children sent to thee
but thou wouldst but thou wouldst not. 

and repeat. 

Very nice

and just cause im on the subject of Jerusalem...

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